Organised Chaos
by Lady Savage
Summary: Post S5: Amidst the growing conflict between Slayers and demons, a band of friends went on a suicide mission to cripple a great evil. Could this well intentioned act create a power vacuum that will destroy the world?


**A/N:** _I've always planned to rewrite this fic. In all truthfulness, I've always planned to rewrite all my works. I always leave scenes out, or shorten them in order to get an update in, or I'll want to change a plot point. Seeing as I've been stressed and a little gloomy all too often lately, and therefore unable to work on Progeny until the weekends, I decided to rewrite this fic and see how much I can improve on it. It is, more or less, a continuation of the show, a sixth season of Angel if you will. A great portion of the story will centre around my original characters, and it is they who give the plot impetus, building on the Buffy andAngel mythos. This fic is darker than any other long fic I've written before, and is part of my ambition to write in every genre (except songfic, which I don't like)._

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_**Disclaimer:** _This does not cut into my usual writing time for my other fics. This is being written in the time I have when I feel the need to write, but can't get as light-hearted as the others require. The rating may change, and I'd advise any of you to disregard almost all of my statements regarding the length of this, or any of my other fics. I'm notoriously bad at misjudging how much story I have to tell. Also, as one of my few concessions to the original, I deliberately don't mention names wherever possible here. It is not an oversight, nor is it the trend._

**Book I**

**Chapter 1: Beginnings**

This story begins in the City of Angels, Los Angeles, in a dark alley at night. Heavy raindrops pelted from the sky, beating a staccato on the concrete.

Four compatriots look at one another, in case it is the last time. A tall, dark man, a slight man notable due to his peroxide and leather, a bleeding black man and a blue haired woman in red leather. An uncommon gathering, brought together through blood and death, grief and desperation, all looking for a slim hope.

Dimly, a sound intrudes. A heavier beat than the rain, the footsteps of an army. The thumping grows louder, coarse, guttural shouts and keening screams split the air. Lightning flashes, illuminating the ragged appearance of the four and the rapidly closing army.

"I'll take the 30,000 on the left…" coughs the bald man, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You're fading. You'll last ten minutes at best," the woman snaps coldly, dispassionately.

"Then let's make 'em memorable," he replies grimly, gasping as the wound on his stomach throbbed.

The tall man turns dead eyes towards the onrushing horde, a savage, fatalistic flame igniting within him. His fingers twitch and he grips the hilt of his broadsword firmly. His entire body tenses and relaxes, preparing for the fight. His anticipation fills him with a giddy glee for violence he had not felt for a very long time.

The slight man looks at his sodden duster with a grimace. Scowling, he tugs lightly at the leather before giving it up as a lost cause. As he looks towards the teeming throng of demons, he cracks his knuckles. He had lived for the fight, for fists and fangs, and felt a sort of peace at the knowledge he would die that way.

The injured man pressed his hand to the searing slash in his side, wincing as he felt the warm stickiness that his own blood engendered. Pulling his hand away, he watched as the rain rinsed it of blood, crimson rivulets streaming down his wrist. Every shuddering breath was a little harder than the last. Turning towards the enemy, he prepared to take as many as possible with him.

The woman felt an ember of unfamiliar rage explode into a roaring fire. Fury, wrath, hatred, all were well known to her, but this rage was born of despair. She had so little power here. She could kill, but she could not save. She looked at her injured partner, and her rage solidified into a determination harder than steel.

The mass of demons closed on the street, drawing closer still. Soon they would be here.

"In terms of a plan?" the slight man asks, his coarse British accent almost a melodic counterpoint to the guttural insults being screamed at them.

"We fight," the tall man replies, a twitch of his lips possibly the ghost of a smile.

"Bit more specific," the slight man mutters in frustration.

"Well, personally, I kind of wanted to slay the dragon," the tall man said flatly. The demons were sprinting now. Thirty feet. Twenty five feet. Fifteen. Ten. "Let's go to work," he roared, his sword arcing into the face of the foremost demon. Hot ichor sprayed all over him as he leapt to his next opponent. He felt the bones in his face shift and he felt a sensation of pure, unrestrained violence before bringing his sword sharply across his opponent's throat, revelling in the blood, the pain. His sword became a near surgical implement of death, never wasting a swing; every motion killed or maimed or injured yet another of the endless targets.

The slight man produced an axe from under his duster and, ducking under the wild swing of his first attacker, buried it in the stomach of the second. Screaming for the joy of the kill, the slight man's features shifted; teeth sharpening, lengthening, eyes yellowing, forehead becoming ridged. Kicking an opponent in the knee, shattering it, he whirled his axe wildly, killing, maiming, causing chaos.

The woman was a maelstrom of destruction. Savage blows shattered ribcages. The screams of demons were cut short as she ripped their throats out with her bare hands. Crushing and tearing, she used the splintered thigh bone of one of the demons as a club and a knife, painting the alley with red-black blood and greenish organs. Without making a sound, she snapped necks, punched the bone fragment through skulls, snapped spines like twigs, a ruthless engine of destruction.

The injured man gripped his sword tightly. He watched as his three allies savagely slaughtered everything that came within reach. For a brief, crushing moment he felt hope. Then the slight man was cut, dragged to the ground, demons hurrying to stop and kick his body. The demons still came, constantly, endlessly. Suddenly, one slipped past the woman and leapt at him before he could swing his sword.

The pair tumbled to the ground, causing the injured man to scream in pain. The demon's fetid breath filled his nostrils, and it's spittle sprayed his face. It gripped his sword and began to push it towards him, forcing his hands despite his desperate attempts to go the other way. The injured man snapped his neck forward, smashing his forehead into the demon's scabrous face. As it roared in pain, he shoved with all his flagging strength, slicing the thing's throat.

Rolling as fast as he could, feeling faint from lack of blood, he managed to rise to his knees at look at the battle. The woman was still wreaking havoc, a growing pile of demon corpses were strewn at her feet but her leather was torn and bloodied in places. The slight man was on his feet again, but his movements were almost sluggish. He was bleeding copiously, but still he savaged his enemies. The tall man had a huge gash on his back, a network of smaller cuts and two deep punctures in his side, but still he fought on, slicing through flesh and bone.

The injured man heaved a great, hacking cough and fell to his hands, vomiting blood. The woman looked his way, before bellowing, "Half-breed, we should flee."

The slight man nodded once, driving his elbow into a demon's eye socket with brutal force. "Poof," he barked at the tall man. "It's time to get out of here."

The tall man didn't respond, his sword a deadly viper of cold steel, darting forward and striking at the face, neck, stomach of his opponents. Intestines spilled onto the cold concrete wet with blood and rain.

"This is no fucking time to go berserk on us, Peaches," the slight man screamed, grabbing the tattered remains of the tall man's collar and pulling him away from the demons. "Blue, grab Charlie and run!"

The four staggered towards the sewer. The woman kicked the iron grate, causing it to bend and buckle under the force. Hurling the warped piece of steel at the demons chasing them, the four jumped into the sewer. Landing heavily in the rank, stagnant water, they heard a piercing screech, followed by the pained shrieks of the demons caught in the dragon's flame.

The final sound the injured man heard before passing out was the hissing and spitting of molten steel, concrete and flesh.

**XXX**

On a building overlooking the alley, a man stood on the roof. His green shirt whipped in the biting wind, but he remained unaffected by the cold, driving rain. A soft smile played across his features as he watched the dragon beat its wings and fly toward the horizon, and his nose twitched at the strong scent of potent blood and charred flesh.

Running a hand through his short, black hair the man turned to face the four people behind him. His brown eyes shone with amusement. "I think I'm going to like this town," he murmured. "Less than a day and we've already been treated to a show."

He smiled genuinely at the only woman on the roof. She was scowling fiercely as she hunched her small frame to try and avoid getting wet. Her delicate, elfin features promised bloody vengeance on somebody. As the man sauntered next to her he casually wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders.

"Cheer up, Kitten," he whispered in her ear. "It almost never rains in this part of California. Enjoy it while you can."

"I'd enjoy it a whole lot better if I could do it inside where it's dry," she grumbled. "Can we go kill something now?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he admonished. "Business before pleasure."

He turned to the three near identical figures of the other men on the roof, and stared at their yellow eyes and ridged features in contempt. Their clothing was nondescript, with no real defining features.

"Control yourselves," he warned coldly. Two of the vampires managed to banish their demonic visage, but the third only whimpered softly. The man walked him towards the edge of the building that overlooked the slaughter. "It smells powerful, doesn't it?" he asked in a tolerant tone. "All that magic, and blood." The vampire nodded. "And you just know that as soon as they realise it's over, all the carrion eaters are going to show up and get the survivors all to themselves," he continued friendlily. The vampire growled agreement. "After all, they couldn't all be dead, right?"

"Yeah," the vampire muttered.

Suddenly, the man switched his grip, looping his arm around the vampire's neck and snapping it with ease. "Well, we better make sure," he said as he shoved the limp body onto the street. Turning a cold stare on the others, he said, "I trust that every one else can exert a little self control? We're in the middle of civilisation here."

The diminutive girl grinned savagely and flicked her long brown hair. "I just love it when you get all dominant."

"You two know what I want," he addressed the remaining vampires.

"Yeah," they agreed hurriedly.

He smiled again, as though he'd never stopped. "Then make it happen."

The woman slid her tiny hand under his shirt and played with his flat stomach. "Can we play, yet?" she pouted.

His white teeth shone. "Let's go get you someone to eat, Kitten."

**XXX**

"I really do think you should consider taking up a more substantial slaying responsibility," the middle-aged Brit said gravely.

The small blonde girl sighed. "We've been over this. I'm out."

"He can't make you something other than you are," he reminded her gently.

"You think I don't know that? I've spent the better part of the last decade finding out over and over how I can't be anything else," she shouted. "But now I'm not the Slayer, I'm just a Slayer," she continued more quietly. "Don't you think I deserve whatever happiness I can get?"

The man smiled softly. "Of course you do. I just worry-"

"I know," she cut in. The pair shared a weary smile.

"I don't suppose I could tempt you by saying that we need an experienced Slayer in Los Angeles?" he inquired hopefully.

She shook her head. "Not yet. Too many… painful memories."

He nodded his greying head in commiseration. He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated and closed it.

"I'm not going to stop slaying," she assured him. "I'm just not going to let it become my life again. It hurts too much."

The man nodded and soothingly petted her hand. "If I can ever do anything…"

"I know, I know," she replied wryly. "I'll make sure I call you." The small blonde spied a shadow in the doorway. "You can stop eavesdropping, you know?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping," the tall, slender young woman grumbled, tucking her long brown hair behind her ear. She was gripping a small man who whined piteously by the arm. "I just heard something from this dweeb I thought you might want to hear."

The blonde narrowed her green eyes at the boy dangerously, while the older man wearily wiped his glasses clean. "What might I want to hear?" she grated lethally.

"Uh, well," he wavered.

The brunette gripped his arm tighter, causing him to squeal.

"Spike's alive," he rushed.

The blonde's eyes opened wide. "Oh."

**XXX**

On a bus heading towards L.A., a young man slouched in his bus seat, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his denim jacket. His eyes were fixed at the battered carry-bag wedged in between his scuffed runners. It contained everything in the world he possessed; a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a crumpled handful of twenties and a weather-beaten old book. He started when someone dropped heavily into the seat next to him.

"Hi," the guy said, nodding to him. He had dirty blond hair, a slightly over-sized nose, a ready grin and friendly blue eyes. "This your first trip to L.A.?"

The dark-haired man nodded. "You?" he enquired.

"Nah," he scoffed. "I live there. I'm a bartender. You got a place to stay lined up?"

The young man hesitated. "Yeah."

The friendly man looked knowingly at the duffel bag. "Hey, don't sweat it. I know what it's like to need to go somewhere new. Girl troubles?"

The dark-haired man shook his head. "Family troubles."

The other man whistled lowly. "Man, that's rough."

"Yeah."

"I hope you left for a good reason," the guy said.

The dark-haired man stared intently at his overnight bag. "So do I."

**XXX**

"Your daughter is very special," the cultured British voice said certainly.

"We know," a middle aged man said cautiously but unable to hid his pride. He squeezed his wife's hand and pulled his seventeen year old daughter into a one-armed embrace.

The wiry British man adjusted his thin wire frame glasses. "In times since past, I would only be informing you that your daughter has been awarded a scholarship."

"A scholarship?" the girl squeaked, her blue eyes wide.

The Brit smiled nervously, nodding jerkily. "Yes, but sadly that is not all I have to say. Your daughter is a Slayer."

The older man frowned thunderously. "You'd best explain yourself before I go calling the cops."

"Of course, of course," the dark-haired young man said in a placating tone. "I'm sure she has noticed that she was gotten notably stronger within the last year, and that her balance has improved drastically."

The girl nodded her head, pale wisps of white-blond hair whipping about her face.

"This is because she, along with a large number of other girls around the world, were Chosen last year. We're still trying to find them all, but unfortunately we Watchers are greatly reduced in number and influence and it is still a time-consuming effort to find them. Still, we have enough resources to offer each girl we find a scholarship through school and a weekly stipend. I have all the literature here, as well as contact numbers for myself and my superiors, in case you feel the need to discuss this heavy decision with men and women more experienced than myself."

"What does a Slayer do?" the girl's mother asked astutely.

"Ah," the young man said awkwardly. "They fight demons.'

**XXX**

The teen tentatively pressed the damp rag to the cut on his lip. It was the worst he'd ever had. It was nothing. He'd been having conflicting memories recently. Half of them, the familiar half, were of his family. His mom and dad, his sister, Aunt Nora, school. The other half were disturbing. Violent, painful, lonely.

Ever since that fight with the demon he'd had two memories where before he'd had one. For a while, he'd passed them off as a nightmare, a horrible dream. Then _He'd_ shown up. He wasn't even in the new memories for very long, but he was bigger than life in them. His father.

They'd fought that lawyer together, then his father had sent him away to be safe. His lip curled instinctively, half his memories telling him he'd always done that. He winced as the blood welled in the freshly opened wound, and pressed the rag tighter.

He was torn. Half of him knew that his father wanted him to leave so he could face his death and sacrifice himself. Part of him hated him for leaving him, acting as though he wasn't strong enough. The rest of him hated himself for proving his father right, for being the coward.

He wanted to believe that he'd know if anything happened to him, but just a few weeks back he didn't remember anything. As he looked at the deep red in his muscles that he recognised would become deep bruises, he made a decision. He would find his father.

The only thing he wasn't sure about was if he wanted to help him or kill him.

**XXX**

**A/N:**_ This is being posted now because a storm is on the way, and living in the area I do I often lose power during storms. I'm working feverishly to get out Progeny on time, but I may not have the luxury of posting on time like I'd wish and, rather than not post at all, I thought I'd offer this to your perusal. It will not be updated often, and future chapters will be longer and entirely from one character's perspective._


End file.
